Keeper of the Book
by Hopalong
Summary: She could hear her grandmother's words, her mother's as well, "Decide carefully, a spell cannot be undone." Because of her a good man's life was in danger. Complete


**Keeper of the Book**

~~~ _1_

Back pressed against the side of the building, hand clutched to her chest, the woman stood alone, listening to the voice inside her head,_ 'A name, it has the power to make a man who and what he is_.' Her dark eyes followed as he worked his way across the street, stopping to let a wagon pass, side-stepping the path of a rider on horseback. '_Matthew, a strong name, solid. One a boy grows in to_. _One he tries to earn_.' She whispered it loud enough for her ears only, "Matthew," savoring the syllables on her tongue. Watching as he paused in mid street and turned, looking in her direction without seeing before dismissing a need to respond and continuing on. "Matthew," she whispered the name again.

~~~ _2_

Full moon brightness with shadows black as the moon was white. Strides moving in and out of darkness, spurs flashing in the moonlight. "Matthew," she said softly. The echoing footsteps stopped, legs and feet swiftly merged with the shadows. The night fell silent. "Matthew," she repeated. She knew he searched.

'_The second of the namings,' _nodding to herself, pleased. '_Happening at night the book says. The next during the day, then at night, day again after that. Nine times in all the book says, nouă.' _Pulling a shawl over her head, ends wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she left by way of the nighttime shadows weaving her way through the alleys into the forgotten areas of town. Lips moving she silently recited the required twenty-three words, repeating them once then once again, three times the book said as she slowly eased herself down to sit and wait for the dawn.

~~~ _3_

Its barrel roof overhung a narrow porch on the driver's end where she sat on piled pillows, reins in hand when not walking alongside her horse as they traveled. Camped here, wooden steps stretched down between the traces. A vardo she called it, its red paint faded and peeling, ghosts of green wavy lines surrounded the door, encircled the side window, and ran along the scalloped skirt that dressed the edge around the lower frame. Built by her husband at the start of their westward journey the wooden caravan showed miles of wear.

Climbing the steps she paused in the open doorway letting her eyes adjust to the deep crimson glow, the interior painted the same as the exterior its colors still vibrant. A small stove sat to her left as she stepped inside; under the window sat a narrow table with two stools. Low cupboards topped by a smooth counter and tiers of open shelves overflowing with multiple sizes of boxes and containers ran along the right side. Stretching across the back, a raised bed with deep drawer beneath.

She pulled open the heavy drawer, shifting blankets, pillows, and cushions uncovering a wooden box hidden in the farthest corner. Cradling it with both hands she carried it over and set it down in the middle of the table. Awkwardly painted with black outlines and cryptic symbols the box had a crude, primitive look.

With ease of familiarity her fingers unhooked the latch and tilted back the lid; she carefully lifted out her most valued possession. Untying its silk wrapping her hands softly caressed the old book's plain leather cover. She knew its contents by heart. Potions, spells, curses and cures in the transcribed words of her Străbunică, her great grandmother, who retold the memorized words of the many greats who came before her. Gently turning the pages her eyes skimmed over the old language, the limba ţigănească, written in an old fashioned spidery hand. Running her fingers along the tightly spaced lines her thoughts returned to her childhood and her mother's voice reciting the strange words.

Turning to a page nearly midway between front and back, light from the small window fell across three symbols drawn there, the ink faded with time. She drew their outlines in the air. Eyes closed, without breathing, she counted out the requisite number of beats and more, until forced to take a deep hungry breath pulling in with it the signs as they hovered in the air before her. Carefully rewrapping the book she placed it back in its box and returned it to its hiding place.

With the full afternoon remaining she began her walk to town.

~~~ _4_

Rain. The glow of streetlamps reflecting in the puddles. A thin little man moving with stiff-legged shuffling steps reeled drunkenly into the empty space between the two buildings. Stepping out from under a sheltering stairway she grabbed him keeping him from falling as he staggered his way forward, leading him under the stairs, ushering him to a dry corner. Hearing the sound of boot steps she turned and stepped out into the open space. Hand pressed to her chest, "Matthew," she said softly and waited. Glancing over her shoulder determining her secret stayed secure, she repeated the name. The sound of his steps bringing him into view, gas lights with enough of a glow showed him stepping off the boardwalk, a splash, another as he crossed the street heading in her direction. Alarmed, she moved deeper into the narrow passageway, rounding a corner quickly, quietly. She was far from the street before she lit the lantern she carried. Rain changing to a soft mist she began reciting the words, carefully avoiding the puddles as she left town.

~~~ _5_

'_Today will be a difficult day,' _the voice said,_ 'his touch must be added to the sign.' _She was up early going over her plan. _'Of his own free will_,' she reminded herself, '_that's what the book says.'_ Taking a tin canister off the self she pulled open its lid selecting a six inch square of light colored leather from several inside. Opening a long, narrow, paperboard carton she collected a goose quill pen, from another box a small jar of black ink made from the gall of an oak. Her hands worked to smooth and flatten the leather before dipping pen in ink and drawing a large circle, stopping to chant a rhyming verse before drawing a smaller circle inside the first. She added a vertical line then a horizontal one dividing the small circle into fourths. In each section she carefully printed the letter M underscored with a broken line while, in a sing-song voice, chanted the rhyme a second time.

The morning hour was still early when she headed for town.

From the doorway of the general store she saw him leaving the restaurant, smiling, a woman on his arm, her red hair shining in the sun. Taking a quick step backwards she deliberately bumped into the red haired woman as they passed, consciously dropping the square of leather at their feet. Reacting quickly he reached out; she felt his firm but gentle grip on her arm steadying her as she moved away from the doorway. It was the red haired woman who spoke first, "Oh," she gasped, "are you alright?" She heard sincerity in her voice and nodded her head in response. Retrieving the piece of leather, "Are you sure you're OK?" he asked as he handed it her. "Fine," she said with a forced gruffness, noticing kindness in the clear blueness of his eyes before turning her back, inventing an interest in the window display. Rolling the piece of leather she tucked it in the pocket of her skirt, her eyes following their reflection in the glass as the two walked away. "Matthew." He stopped and stared at her; she kept up the pretense of looking at the merchandise. Shaking his head in response to something the red haired woman said they continued on. "Matthew," again, and she was gone.

"Who is she?" "I dunno, Kitty. Been told she's camped a short ways outta town." "Is she there alone?" "I dunno that either. She's livin' in a gypsy wagon, that's what I heard," linking her arm in his. "Somethin' troublin' you about her?" she asked. "I'm not sure," his eyes searching the boardwalk, "maybe."

~~~ _6_

The square of leather rolled tightly and tied shut with a strip of rawhide, his touch trapped inside, stayed hidden overnight in a pouch of dried corn, the pouch kept in a box, the box kept on the shelf amongst herbs and other oddities. She reached for the whip of willow bent in a circle, taking it down from its nail in the ceiling. Unrolling the leather square she centered on the table, design-side up, encircling it with the willow hoop.

Pulling a cord from around her neck, untangling it from the strands of beads she wore, she drew out a velvet pouch containing a small piece of rock, the metal of the heavens, rarest of all, surface burnt and dark, heavy beyond its small size. Since the namings began she carried it inside her blouse, close to her heart. She woke this amuletăthe day before she reached Dodge, encouraging its help, requesting permission to use those of its powers she needed most. Placing it at the center point of the drawn circles she poured out the dried corn, kernels bouncing and scattering inside the willow hoop, across the leather square, forty-one pieces. It was time for his reading.

Entering town late in the evening she stopped at the feed store buying two pounds of oats for her horse, justifying her coming if someone were to ask. Arriving just before closing. The pre-night sky, a somber gray, matched her mood, disturbed, unsettled, confused by the reading, wishing for darkness to come quickly. Sitting on a crate outside the freight office she held her purchase on her lap, resting it would seem. Hearing his voice her lips moved without sound, the name said but unspoken, two times from afar. The amuletă beneath her hand pressed to her heart.

~~~ _7_

He'd been watching from atop the hill on and off for most of these past days, the man who hired her. She gave him no indication she noticed. He had followed her when she hastily left the last town, people there hostile with their prejudice. It was two days before he made his approach; standing beside his horse reins in hand, he had waited for her at the side of the road. If she was heading for Dodge he was in need of her help. She sensed tension mixed with a small amount of fear. Excused his familiar look, the silent ridicule of her strange attire. Skin dark, face creased, a tangle of long black hair heavily streaked with gray hanging down her back; he'd been unable to mask his distaste.

"I heard there are . . . spells and, uh, things you can make that'll give one man an advantage over another?" his statement had became a question. Her barely perceptible nod allowed him to continue. "There's a man in Dodge," this was the speech he'd rehearsed, "he wronged my brother, dishonored our family name." Stepping back he conceded room when she climbed down from the vardo, setting chocks against the wheel before squatting down prepared to listen. After a moment's hesitation, still maintaining his distance, he too squatted down. "What is it you want from me?" she had asked. He explained how this man was powerful, claimed authority on his side. All he wanted was to regain honor for his family, retribution for their shame. He needed help putting this man in his rightful place. She remembered taking a long time before giving her answer, seeing his discomfort increase under her stare. "It will cost a great deal," she had said quoting a large sum, "payment in silver coin, ten dollars now." Holding out her hand she had waited for his decision. She told him when she reached Dodge she would need time, it would take until the afternoon of the ninth day for all to be ready. "I need his name," she'd stated. "Not the one he was born into," she explained, "the one he was given, the one he made his own."

It had been her husband's wish to move west, he dreamt of starting a new community where her daughter's family and others would join them. She was making the journey back, alone, bringing the book. '_It was time to let it go, and her daughter's turn to receive it,' _sheworked hard convincing herself of that, Shaking her purse she stirred through the coins, her funds were low and supplies were needed; the reason she regrettably accepted the man's request to intercede. It would have been difficult to make it back to Illinois if she hadn't.

Kettle of water heating on the tiny stove she carefully selected herbs for her breakfast tea, something to soothe feelings of uneasiness before she left for town.

~~~ _8_

She used the book again, its feel reassuring. Fingertips touching each word as she translated out loud, "Chopped leaves from a thorny plant, ash from a long dead fire," both placed in a shallow bowl_, _adding,"dirt trod on by a horse. Spit,thrice." Pouring in several drops of rabbit skin glue from a glass-stoppered bottle she worked it into a mass, rolling it between her palms, shaping it into a ball. Setting it outside in the sun to dry.

Searching the cupboard she found a scrap of cloth the same size as a page from the book, its texture coarse, brown the color used for a man. She gathered the cloth around the hardened ball and tied it tightly with string. It took on the look of a head covered with a flowing cloak; it stood in for a doll, the doll standing in for the targeted man. Tonight in the semi darkness of the gas-lit street she would hold it lifted high in the air her arm outstretched so it could see him. She'd whisper "Matthew, Matthew" in its ear.

It was late, well past the midpoint of the night, darkness inside the vardo surrounded her as she sat at the table puffing on her pipe. Heat from the small stove offered relief from the chilling dampness of mists swirling in the low lying areas, the night air turning cold on her walk back from town. Whether a sound or movement made her glance out the window she wasn't sure. As the mist drifted and rose she saw the wolf. _'Lup care se luptă,'_ the voice cautioned, the warrior wolf. Staring directly at the window, in the briefest hint of moonlight, its eyes shone with the same clear blueness as the man she worked against. It warned of truths not told.

Her hands trembling slightly, fear prickling her scalp, she submerged an iron nail in a jar of salt water. It sat at the foot of her bed as she slept.

~~~ _9_

He followed her into town and out again, what he expected to see she wasn't sure but she knew it wasn't a shopping trip. Canvas bag filled with supplies she walked back from town. Climbing the steps to her vardo she saw him waiting on horseback atop the hill, it was the afternoon of the ninth day. '_His visit will be soon,_' the voice said. Stepping inside she closed the door and waited.

His knock was loud and bold. She countered it with a harsh, "Come in." He stood in the doorway blinking, eyes adjusting to the dim light and the cloud of smoke from her pipe before stepping inside, ducking his head as he dodged bundles of plant cuttings hanging from the ceiling. He dropped the silver coins in her outstretched palm, annoyed as she counted through the payment, "Well, now what?"he questioned. She gestured toward the cloth doll. Snatching it off the table he glared at her, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?" "Keep it with you, don't let it go." He laughed, tossing it back at her. "It holds all the powers you'll need," she counseled, adjusting the cloth and handing it back, "it will work best if used in the morning hours." Roughly grabbing it out of her hand he stuffed it in his pocket, "Remember this you old witch . . .," she bristled at the word, ". . . you listen and you listen good; if this goes wrong I'll curse you from my grave." A mirrored cabinet hung to the right of the doorway, his eyes were filled with a confident smugness, she saw them reflected there as he reached the door. Angrily she blew a cloud of tobacco smoke at his back as he stomped out.

"Hoanghină," she hissed at his insult, "witch," she spat out the word. Fumbling about for a piece of paper,_ "_I do not hold with asasinat. I will not be responsible for moarte,"she fumed. A stub of a pencil in her hand she hastily drew symbols until both sides of the sheet were filled. Folding it several times, she stuffed it in her shoe. In three days, after it captured all evil thoughts sent her way, she'd burn it and bury the ashes.

'_The spell is complete,'_ the voice said, warning, '_they might come for you with stones and torches like they did for your grandmother; you should prepare to leave.'_ Instead, late in the night she returned to town. On her knees in front of the jailhouse door she unrolled a cone of paper, pouring out a line of coarse powder ground from her cache of twigs laid for a night's rest on a newly dug grave. Bending low, her head touching the walkway she blew gently, the powder disappearing through the gap beneath the door. With a charred stick she made marks on the wooden boards where he would step. "Mathew," she whispered, "Matthew." From a sound sleep she knew he woke.

~~~ _10_

Standing in the front of the building she waited, seeing his lip curl in a confident sneer as he stepped into the middle of the street. Planting his feet in a wide stance he yelled, "Dillon, I'm callin' ya. Get yourself out here." The jail's door swung open and with a few bold strides his target stood facing him. "Who are you?" she heard his deep voice demand an answer. '_He's __Fiul Diavolului,'_ she shouted, _'it's what I call him, Son of the Devil,'_ but the shouted words stayed inside her head. Silently she shouted out more. _'He tricked me_. _Lied. I couldn't stop, that's the rule. The book says.'_

Her heartbeat quickened as she heard the loud and boasting answer, "Name's Iverson, Vince Iverson." Lips moving, rehearsing the syllables, she pressed her hand to her chest clutching the cloth wrapped stone resting there and moved to the edge of the boardwalk. She watched carefully for the right moment, her timing, it had to be perfect.

"Vince, Vince," she whispered.


End file.
